International Headquarters PO Box 1716 • Morristown, NJ 07962 Tel: 973‐605‐1991
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International Headquarters PO Box 1716 • Morristown, NJ 07962 Tel: 973‐605‐1991 www.iaci‐usa.org Welcome to the latest edition of the IACI e-news. Founded in 1962, the IACI is the leading Irish American cultural organization. The IACI is a federally recognized 501(c)(3) not-for-profit national organization devoted to promoting an intelligent appreciation of Ireland and the role and contributions of the Irish in America. Guest contributors are always welcome! Please note, the IACI is an apolitical, non-sectarian organization and requests that contributors consider that when submitting articles. The IACI reserves the right to refuse or edit submissions. The views and opinions expressed in this newsletter are solely those of the original authors and other contributors. These views and opinions do not necessarily represent those of the IACI or any/all contributors to this site. Please submit articles for consideration to [email protected]. To continue reading articles contained in this latest e-news, please scroll through the following pages. Ed Lucas: The Man Who Overcame Life's Greatest Obstacles by Christopher Lucas Optimism, humor, generosity, faith and tenacity rank chief among the qualities that we, as Irish- Americans, are famous for. I consider myself fortunate enough to have witnessed all of these and more up close in the person of my remarkable father, Ed Lucas. I’m not the only one who has recognized these things in my Dad. He has been honored by organizations throughout the world, is a member of four different Halls of Fame, is an Emmy winning broadcaster and counts several U.S. Presidents as friends. The amazing part is that my father has done all of these things despite being struck blind in an accident at age 12. Our family has roots in County Cork. They came to the United States in the 1860’s and settled in Jersey City. By the time my father was born in 1939, his neighborhood was packed with blue collar Irish families. My grandfather, Edward Lucas, Sr. worked on the docks, helping to construct battleships for the Navy. My grandmother, Rosanna, was a professional boxer - she boxed apples and oranges for the A&P. Neither were properly prepared for their baby to be born two months premature with severe vision problems. Though his limited sight was a concern, my father was still able to enjoy a relatively normal life. Thanks to the tight knit Irish community and his many cousins, he never lacked for playmates or fun activities, including getting to indulge in his biggest passion; baseball. Jersey City’s Roosevelt Stadium, located on the Hackensack River, was home to the New York Giants minor league baseball team, the Jersey City Giants. Parents and kids in my Dad’s neighborhood would routinely take the bus together to games. It was there that my father fell in love with the sport. He was even lucky enough to witness American history up close in the professional debut of Jackie Robinson in April of 1946 at Roosevelt Stadium. By the time he was 12, my father knew that he wanted to be a ballplayer or – at the very least – a broadcaster calling the games like his idols; Russ Hodges and Ernie Harwell. As he would soon discover, God had a different path laid out for Ed Lucas. On October 3, 1951, the New York Giants and Brooklyn Dodgers would meet in a do or die game to decide who would be the National League pennant winner that year. Dad, who was in the 6th grade at the time, ran home after school to watch the final innings on the 12 inch black and white Philco TV at the family apartment in the Jersey City projects. This was the same game where Bobby Thomson of the New York Giants hit his famous “shot heard ‘round the world”, a dramatic bottom of the ninth inning home run that helped Dad’s beloved Giants to victory. My father was so excited about the miraculous win that he wanted to recreate the moment with friends, racing to a nearby vacant lot to play ball as the late afternoon dusk of October crept in. It was a choice that would change his life forever. Dad took his place on the mound as the pitcher and tossed a few warm-up strikes, assisted by the small amount of sunlight still available. The first batter connected with the ball, and that same twilight worked against him. A screaming line drive shot back from the bat and sped towards my father’s face, giving him little time to react. The ball smashed squarely between his eyes, crushing the bridge of his nose, and severely damaging his already fragile retinas. The hazy image of a white sphere as it raced towards him on a baseball diamond in the early October gloom was the last thing my father ever saw. Trapped in darkness, Dad listened from his hospital bed as the doctors informed my grandmother and grandfather that the injury to his eyes was irreversible. He would never regain his sight. My grandparents were devout Catholics. They prayed hard for a miracle. They even offered to each donate one eye to transplant so that my father might see again, something that was not medically possible in 1951. Dad was doomed to spend the rest of my life as a blind person. The thought terrified him. The only image he had of a blind man was of one on the streets of New York, standing on a corner with a cup and a cane begging for pennies from kind strangers. Was this to be the life he would live? Sadness washed over my father, the darkness claimed his spirit. He couldn’t even bear to listen to the World Series that year, which the Giants lost to the Yankees. Dad spent the next few months in depression and fear. His own personal winter matched the temperature outside. In an attempt to cheer him up, my grandmother wrote letters to baseball stars. She asked for a note of support, or perhaps an autograph. What actually happened proved to be the miracle she had been praying for. Player after player called on my Dad, encouraging him to embrace his passion for their game as a way to pick himself up. Two men in particular stood out. Leo Durocher, the fiery manager of the Giants, invited my father to be his personal guest in the dugout and clubhouse. Leo made sure that each one of his players came over to speak to him about persevering through life’s slumps. Phil “Scooter” Rizzuto, The New York Yankees’ MVP shortstop, went even further. Moved by my grandmother’s letter, Mr. Rizzuto became a personal life-long mentor and friend to my Dad. Scooter had been told that he was too short to play ball at a pro level, yet he never gave up. It was Phil who told my father to ignore the naysayers and to just follow his passion. It was also Scooter who introduced my father to another man who became a great friend, the legendary Joe DiMaggio. On the day he and “Joltin’ Joe” first met, my father was 13 years old and incredibly nervous. To put him at ease, the great DiMaggio asked my Dad to sit at his table with him. The first thing he said was, “So, Eddie, tell me, what’s your favorite Italian meal?” My father was expecting to talk baseball, not high cuisine, so he blurted out the first thing that popped into his head. “Well, every Tuesday my Mom opens up a can or two of Chef Boyardee. I like that!” Audible gasps could be heard, as those in the room who knew that Mr. DiMaggio was the first generation son of an Italian fisherman and chef figured he might be deeply offended. After a moment of uncomfortable silence, the Yankee hero threw back his head in laughter, patted my Dad on the head and shouted “Someone get this skinny Irish kid a plate of pasta e fagioli, pronto!” Mr. Rizzuto helped to motivate my Dad to break down other barriers. He graduated with a broadcasting degree from Seton Hall University, and carved out a successful sixty year career covering the game he loves. My father’s deep faith and the support of the Irish-American community also got him through a crisis even tougher than losing his sight. In 1979, when I was 10 and my brother was 12, the court system took us away from my Dad, saying that a disabled man should not be raising kids all by himself, though that is what my father had been successfully doing since my Mom walked out on him almost a decade earlier. This setback brought my father lower than he’d ever been before. He knew that he had to fight to prove his capability as a parent, but his spirit was crushed. When word got out about the court case, it was his friends, associates and those who knew him from baseball who reached out to offer their support as he worked hard to bring his children back home. Inspired by my grandmother’s efforts decades earlier, my father wrote to many of his heroes to help bring him out of his funk. One of those people was Sister Lucia Santos of Fatima, who had witnessed the famous apparition of Our Lady in 1917. Not only did Sister Lucia write back, she also got in touch with him, praying together for a positive outcome, if it was in God’s will.